Turning of the Year
by cairea
Summary: Miklotov is broody. Camus interrupts cheerfully.


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Turning of the Year

By Megan

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"Here you are."

Miklotov glanced up as Camus dropped down to sit next to him. He had been sitting on the edge of one of the planters on the roof of the fortress, intending to spend the evening away from the festivities commemorating the turning of the year. While he understood that during a war any chance to celebrate was good for morale, parties had never been his thing. His lieutenant would represent him admirably for as long as was necessary.

He might have expected that Camus would follow him.

The Red Knight was in full uniform, of course, complete with that idiotic cape. Thing was a liability in combat, but it never seemed to slow him down. Miklotov would never have allowed it if the man had been under his command. In fact, he recalled protesting violently the first day Camus had shown up wearing it.

Now he couldn't imagine seeing the other man without it. It was as much a part of who Camus was as his sword and his ready smile. And Miklotov was willing to bet that despite the nearness of dirt, when Camus stood up it would be as pristine and unwrinkled as it had been when he'd put it on that morning.

"Here," said Camus, breaking in on his musings. Miklotov frowned at the glass of wine that was suddenly hovering before his eyes. Camus smiled. "Oh, come on. It's almost midnight."

Wordlessly, Miklotov took the glass, gingerly feeling its delicate stem between his fingers. "What does the time have to do with anything?"

"Well . . . you can't say it's too early to drink, for one." Camus laughed at the glower he received for that comment. "And they say that whatever you're doing at midnight when the new year begins is what you'll be doing for the rest of that year. You wouldn't want to jinx yourself by brooding all night, would you?"

A slight feeling of déjà vu came over Miklotov and he glanced sharply at his companion. "You've said that before."

"Mm. Our first year as Knights, I think."

"That's right . . ."

Camus leaned back, heedless of the branches behind him snagging in his clothing. "You were going to spend the entire night training because the other Knights were being too loud for you to sleep." He chuckled.

"The Red Knights were being too loud for me to sleep," Miklotov corrected.

Brown eyes glittered briefly in the torchlight as Camus chose to ignore the interruption completely. "I, being the kind-hearted soul I am, could hardly let one of my fellow Knights spend the evening alone."

Miklotov snorted, clearly remembering the tousled, half-asleep boy who had wandered into the training ring to watch him as the night grew old. To this day he didn't know why exactly Camus hadn't been celebrating with everyone else. He did have his suspicions, though.

__

"What are you doing?"

"Just watching." White teeth glinted briefly in the moonlight. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Of course not." All the same, he lowered his sword, frowning. "You're the Grasslander."

Bluntness that put others on their guard or sent them into retreat had no discernable effect on this foreigner. "So I am. You're Miklotov."

It was impossible to tell if he was being mocked through that almost placid expression. Unable to decide whether or not he should take offense, Miklotov took refuge in simplicity. "Yes."

That smile -- amused and somehow more mature than the rest of its owner's face -- flashed again. "I'm Camus, if you please."

"All right."

Camus twirled the stem of his wineglass idly, eyes tipped up to the sky. "For a while there I thought I was going to have to cut that sword out of your hand to get you to relax for an hour."

"I _was_ relaxing."

"Hm." Camus smiled. "Well, that's how you relax now." He glanced over at Miklotov's untouched wine. "Are you going to drink that? I assure you, by now it's quite properly chilled."

Very deliberately, Miklotov raised the glass to his lips and took a sip, eyebrows raising slightly as he tasted it. "Where did you find this?"

"Oh, well . . . " That smile appeared -- amused, sheepish and with the underlying compassion and sincerity that had every Red Knight fully willing to die for their commander without a second thought -- and Camus leaned forward slightly. "That's my secret."

"Camus."

"Sorry, no."

Miklotov sighed and took another appreciative sip. "Red Knights."


End file.
